The Witch's Talisman

It was late, and the garage was dark. As the thrum of the motor buzzed above me, closing the rolling door, I flipped on the light and spent five minutes unloading my forest green Ford Escape—totes and denim bags full of drums and drumsticks.

Exhaustion weighed on me.

The drum circle I had just returned from had been... unsettling.

Though I had risen as a leader in this community, I had never considered myself a hippie. I appreciated drum circles for their unity and spiritual connection, but I often felt like an outsider. The other attendees dressed in vibrant colors, spoke of energy, spirits, and astral travel as if mysticism was the only lens through which life was viewed. I, on the other hand, preferred black clothing and found the attention that came with leading events draining. Nights like this left me yearning for solitude, grateful for a silent home where my children, away at their father's, left space for me to recharge.

But tonight, what I had witnessed defied reason.

The drum circles had always been filled with laughter and lighthearted spirituality—until now. A woman, who openly identified as a witch, had volunteered to stand in the center of our circle. When asked what she sought support for, she answered simply: "Change."

Draped in a cloak of purple, gray, and black, she stood adorned with jingling silver trinkets. As the drumming began, she chanted in an unknown language—her voice deepening, twisting into something foreign, something not her own. Then she turned to meet my gaze.

Her eyes were black.

A shiver ran through me as I remembered, and I stacked my drums in the garage corner. My hands rested on my hips internally debating whether to organize them properly, but fatigue won. It could wait until morning.

I locked the garage door, made my way to my bedroom, and collapsed onto my bed without washing my face or brushing my teeth. Sleep took me instantly.

The dreamscape came swiftly, shifting in and out of focus. And then, clarity.

Standing before me was my grandfather, Carmel—my father's father. He had passed long before I was born, but I recognized him from photographs. Yet, in this vision, his eyes gleamed like aquamarine crystals.

"Katie," he said, his voice kind yet weighted with urgency, "Have your father give you a blessing of protection over the drum circles."

I woke with a start. The house was dark, the full moon glowing through my window.

What had woken me? The dream still clung to me, thick and real.

Then, a sound. A high-pitched, almost imperceptible whine, like the static of a broken television. It pierced my mind more than my ears.

Drawn by an inexplicable pull, I rose, moving through the house and down to the garage. The sound intensified as I neared the pile of bags. I wasn't hearing it with my ears—I was sensing it.

My hand reached into a bag, unerringly finding the source: a silver sun-and-moon charm. The moment my fingers closed around it, the sound stopped.

The charm was innocent enough at first glance, the sun’s smiling face cradled by the crescent moon. But something was off. It felt... wrong.

Recognition struck me. It matched the trinkets the witch had worn.

She had placed it in my bag.

Had I not "heard" the energetic disturbance and been drawn to it tonight, I wouldn't have discovered it for another month—until the next drum circle.

Instinct recoiled from the charm. I sealed it inside a small cardboard box and went back to bed, unsettled.

The next morning I picked up the phone and called my father.

Though my parents had long expressed disapproval of my participation in drum circles, believing them to be spiritually misguided, I knew that in his faith, a father was bound to give a blessing if his child requested it.

"Hi, Dad," I said, surrendering to the weight of the moment. "I know this might sound strange, but last night, I dreamt that Grandpa Carmel told me to ask you for a blessing. Can I come over?"

A pause. Then, "Sure, Katie. We have church in an hour. Can you come before then?"

I agreed.

What was said in that blessing remains with me. Perhaps I'll share it someday. Perhaps not. But I left with a deeper understanding of my purpose in leading these gatherings. And I think my father gained a new understanding, too—for he never criticized my drum circles again.

The blessing brought me peace. But the charm still lingered in my thoughts.

I called Shelly, a trusted friend and psychic medium who had been present at the circle.

Over the phone, I explained what had happened—the charm, the dream, the blessing.

Shelly paused. "Okay," she said, her voice distant, tuning in. "You need to burn the charm. It’s linked to that woman. She can use it to connect to your space. Bury the remnants by the river—the Earth will cleanse it. I see a curving bank, a fallen log. That’s where it needs to go."

Monday morning found me at the jeweler's bench where I worked. The assistant jeweler, unbothered by my request, showed me how to use the blowtorch.

With safety goggles on, I focused the flame on the charm. It twisted, warped, and then—

Glowed. A sickly, radioactive green.

"I've never seen metal do that before," the jeweler murmured beside me.

Neither had I.

I torched it until it was nothing but blackened fragments, then carefully scooped the remains into the same small cardboard box.

A few days later, I drove through the canyon, crisp autumn air flooding through my windows. I searched for the right place—a secluded stretch of riverbank away from tourists.

When I saw it, I knew. A dirt path led me to the curving river. The fallen log lay sprawled, half-submerged in the water.

I knelt in the dirt and prayed.

I prayed for light, for protection. For wisdom and understanding. I prayed for my children, my friends, and for the path I was walking.

With reverence, I buried the remains of the charm beneath the earth. The past and future merged in that moment—the structured faith of my upbringing meeting the esoteric path unfolding before me.

It wasn’t the last time I would face that witch.

She tested me in ways I never expected. In time, I learned how to shield myself, how to discern ethical energy work from manipulation. I became wary of witches—too wary. So, instead of letting fear breed ignorance, I studied. I walked the path myself.

I learned that not all who practice the old ways deal in darkness.

Now, I advocate for energetic safety and spiritual integrity. And I remember the words spoken over me in my father's blessing:

"Remember, no darkness is more powerful than light. Light will always win."

To see more about this story start here: The Witch Who's Eyes Turned Black

To learn about energy, spiritual sovereignty and how to protect your own energy, take my online shaman course here: Pathway of the Sage

To learn how to open sacred space, to set boundaries of light and protection for yourself, home, and family, go here: Energy Clearing